The Eleventh HourThe Eleventh Hour6 years ago in Historical More Like This
Jane Austen was 39 years old; The doctor had told her of her upcoming death. She was ready. The cance was spreading and there was nothing to do about it. She had no regrets as most women of the early 19th century who had written 6 books in their life time would. She had no regrets
Or at least none that she hadnt given up at 29. But now was not a time to think of such memories. She had to keep herself strong and she had no energy to waste on blue eyes that belonged in the past. She had to finish her last book.
Its this stuffy room. She stripped off her nightgown and proceeded to cloth herself with a melancholy green dress and a cream colored shawl.
She glided among the trees. As it awoke, the damp smell of the forest filled her lungs and seemed to drag downward into the ground puling disease down with it. Oh the sorrow in being mortal.
As she floated across the virgin ground her eyes clung to every little thing that she passed
The mossy bark